The bouncer said he had a dream. I had one too, only mine was not about anything interesting or sad, or even funny. There was a guy in a suit dancing with a vacuum cleaner. He sang a song about making it with a vampire to the tune of "Strangers in the Night".
I used to have dreams about clutching handfuls of salt like my life depended on it. Escher-scapes and toadstool rings. Monsters enough. Flat cities of gray planks set in muck and go to, let us make brick, and burn them thoroughly. It was science fiction - my dads social reality and my fiction, if there ever was a distinction. They should have been huts, not boxy brick things. And they had brick for stone, and slime had they for mortar.
People struggle with words, they really do.
Words that made whatever I looked like look like itself where not the words that had in them any quality of description.
The memorable, the important writing of the last few centuries is mostly about NOT communicating. Everything stands for something else. The more degrees of seperation between signified and signifier, the better the work, right? Go to, let us worm toward genius! Maybe old Yaweh was right to scatter us. Maybe thats why no one cares about esperanto.
I should have dreamed about cyborgs. Donna Harraway: And modern war is a cyborg orgy, coded by C3I, command-control-communication-intelligence, an $84 billion item in 1984'sUS defence budget.
I know a guy who built a laser for some goons to shoot into space. I'm tired and I have to read all of As I Lay Dying by tommorrow morning.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment